**WATTPAD HQ EDITOR'S PICK Nov/Dec 2021**
BOOK ONE in the STEAMY FORBIDDEN ROMANCE series
Coralie Watson, a British thirty-year-old living in San Francisco, has a tormented past with men. Physical and mental abuse, abandonment issues, incompatibili...
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🔥 STEAMY ALERT—VERY VERY VERY (like for reals) steamy scene ahead. ENTIRE chapter. Proceed with caution (lmao I know you're here for it, don't lie) 🔥
♫ It's crazy how we didn't talk for years But we don't need to say much to get caught up ♪ (Jojo ft. Tory Lanez & 30 Roc—Comeback) (VERY explicit song—warning, video is F I R E)
By the time Ryan pried his mouth from Coralie's, her insides had liquefied.
She blew out a lengthy breath as heat flooded her cheeks.
"Wow," she purred, struggling to stand up straight as she untangled herself from him. Her gaze locked onto the top of his shirt as she licked her lips. "That was everything I expected it to be, and more."
"More?" He weaved his fingers through her hair, bringing her close to him once again. "Is that what you want? More?"
She might have been unsure for the past few weeks, but nestled in his arms, hungover from his dangerously delicious kiss, her qualms had vanished. All the screaming in her head had dulled to a subtle, swooning lullaby that only urged her to further explore these feelings. Hormones raged a war with her conscience, and she was too overwhelmed by lust to fight.
She had no doubt he was what she wanted, despite how many times she'd argued with herself, promising not to give in.
"I..."
He let out the sexiest giggle she'd ever heard; one that ripped through her composure, one that implored her to grab his face and kiss him again.
"Or perhaps you need more convincing? I'm happy to oblige."
His lips pressed onto hers before she'd made up her mind; to decide if, in fact, she needed him to sway her. She was already under his spell, her knees weak, her toes tingling, her core burning with a craving for more.
More.
Yes, she wanted more.
Their tongues explored, twisting and twirling and touching to the point of stopping her heart, then restarting it with such fervor she could barely breathe. Every time she feared she'd lost consciousness, he switched things up—speeding up the tempo, grazing his fingertips along her neck, rubbing his erection against her thigh—and brought her back to life.
She managed to unglue their lips as his hands wandered under her shirt, skidding to her bra clasp.
"We should," she swallowed, dizzy with delight, "take this elsewhere. In case Delilah comes home."
She peered around him at the other end of the room. The table caught her eye, and she pictured him heaving her up and spreading her legs and lowering to his knees to pleasure her.
Fuck.
Delilah might have made plans to sleep at her most recent conquest's house; they could have gotten busy in the kitchen, for all she knew. They could have had fun anywhere in the apartment—and they were both creative enough with their fantasies to do so. On the counter, on the carnelian chair by the door, on the living room carpet—too many ideas shimmied through her mind and she lost focus, lost track of time.
